


When in Paris

by basiltonjeans



Series: Window of Opportunity [4]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Five Years Later, Flirting, Fluffy Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon Snow is Fit, reunited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24791722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basiltonjeans/pseuds/basiltonjeans
Summary: It's been five years since Simon and Baz last saw each other.They're both twenty-three, single and still hung up on the summer they spent together. But now Simon is in Paris - in the city where Baz lives.What will it take for them to finally choose each other?
Relationships: Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Window of Opportunity [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629847
Comments: 27
Kudos: 120





	When in Paris

**Author's Note:**

> This series has come to an end! I really, really enjoyed writing this final part so I hope you like it too. 
> 
> Warning: This fourth part won't really make much sense without reading the first three parts, which will explain why both Baz and Simon are so cut up and emotional. 
> 
> I also feel like it's important for me to mention that I haven't been to Paris and know next to nothing about it. When I was writing the first part, I plucked Paris out of nowhere. So the places I wanted to write about in here are purely fiction (except for, obviously, the Eiffel Tower). 
> 
> I put this as 'Mature', though I'm not certain whether 'teen and up audiences' is more appropriate. There is intimacy, but the sexual content is mostly implied. 
> 
> I have some really exciting plans for other stories. I want to write another high school one for Simon and Baz, but with a different twist (and it will have chapters, rather than being a series). I also have plans for an Andrew/Neil (AFTG) one-shot. And another one for Alex/Henry (RWRB). So if you're interested, look out for those! 
> 
> Thank you so much for all of the support for this series. I've loved reading people's lovely comments. It makes writing so much more fulfilling.

**SIMON:**

The last time I was at an airport, I was coming back from my travel year in Italy. During the very few times I’ve been in an airport, I’ve still come to hate them.   
  
Which is why, when my eyes find Penny’s in the bustling, busy exit to the airport, I’m relieved. Her grin broadens and she steps towards me with her arms out.   
  
The last time I saw Penny must’ve been Easter. Almost four months ago. And although we don’t celebrate it, Penny still came to see me. It was nice to see her. And then it was over, and I was driving her to the airport.   
  
As I lean in to embrace her, I notice how _happy_ she looks. Her cheeks are a nice pinkish colour, her eyes sparkling behind her thick-framed glasses.   
  
“I’ve missed you,” she mutters against my ear. I kiss her cheek as I pull away. “How was the flight?”   
  
“Terrible. There was a baby crying behind me the whole time.”   
  
“You should take the ferry next time.”   
  
I raise my eyebrows, “Didn’t I tell you what happened on that boat trip in Italy?”   
  
Realisation dawns upon her and she grins, “Ah, yes. Did sexy Italian guy forgive you for being sick on him?”   
  
I smirk, “He did indeed.”   
  
Penny scoffs and takes hold of my suitcase, looping her other arm through mine. “I swear being sick on people is like . . . a regular thing for you now.”   
  
I glare at her, “It’s happened twice, Pen. Twice.”   
  
“Are you excited to finally be here, then?”   
  
I nod, “Where’s the American?”  
  
Penny lets out a sigh, stopping at a bus stop and throwing herself onto a bench. “He had to stay behind to sort out things in the café.”   
  
“Oh,” I say. “Well, I’m excited to meet him.”   
  
Penny smiles at that. It’s nice to see her like this. Leaving home and going to University has changed her, in good ways. I remember how worried I was the summer before we left for university, because she seemed like she was hiding how she really felt. Now, it’s like she’s finally herself.   
  
I wonder if she can sense those changes in me. These last five years have been a rollercoaster and rarely did I have Penny by my side to support me. Not that it was her fault or anything, we just both had our own things going on.   
  
Agatha’s living in America officially now. It’s been over a year since I last saw her in person, and about six months since we last facetimed. It’s harder than you expect to keep in contact with the people who were once so close to you. Sometimes it’s easier to let go.   
  
When Penny and I get off the bus in Paris city centre, we’ve pretty much caught up on everything. I tell her about my new neighbours in Cardiff, how my mum had visited a few weeks ago, how I had a house party with some old university friends last weekend. She tells me about her new job in Paris, how glad she is she moved here, how glad she is she gets to be with her boyfriend.   
  
“Here!” She says suddenly, stopping outside a small café. She pushes open the doors with no hesitation. I furrow my eyebrows at the closed sign on the door and the way all of the furniture inside is pushed to the corners of the room.   
  
“Closed?” I say.   
  
Penny glances back at me, “Oh, it’s not ready to be opened yet. We still have some details to sort out.”   
  
Inside, I notice a man with curly hair on the top of his head and a long face. When he looks up, he has big glasses on the end of his nose. His mouth curls into a grin and Penny aims straight towards him. He stands up as she gets closer and I’m shocked by how tall and lanky he is. 

Penny kisses his cheek in greeting and then turns back to me, “Shep, this is Simon.”   
  
He follows her line of sight, “Hey! How are we, Simon?”   
  
“Exhausted,” I say and he laughs loudly. I accept his handshake.   
  
“Can I get you anything? Coffee?”   
  
“I’m fine,” I say. I let my eyes wander around the café. It’s larger than it looks from outside, although that might just be because all of the tables and chairs have been pushed from the middle of the room.   
  
“How’s your job going, Simon? I forgot to ask,” Penny says conversationally, pulling two chairs over from the other side of the room.   
  
I shrug. I don’t really want to think about my job. I really let myself believe I wanted to be a publisher whilst I was at university. It seemed like a nice idea. But now I’m there, I hate it. The pay is poor, the job is boring and the people I work with treat workers like me awfully.   
  
“It could be better,” I admit. Penny tilts her head to the side but doesn’t say anything more. I’ve been at the job for months now. She’s probably just shocked I didn’t mention anything about it before.   
  
“Well, cheer up. You’re here for a few days. And tomorrow, we’re going to see the Eiffel Tower!”   
  
She grins at me and Shep, who seems mesmerised by Penny, joins in with all the smiling. Despite myself, I can’t help feeling excited to be in Paris. 

**BAZ:**

**[From: Bunce]**  
_**Free tomorrow for coffee? Usual place, about 2:00-ish????** _

  
I let out an audible sigh, louder than anticipated in the quiet of the library. The man sat across from me glances up with a scowl on his face.  
  
Bunce moved to Paris last year. It was the most unexpected thing – to get a text from somebody you haven’t spoken to in years. I’d been sat at home, lounging on my sofa when I got the first message. Seeing her name appear on my phone, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. She was texting to tell me about her move.   
  
It had taken me a day to respond. I didn’t ask why, but she told me about her new boyfriend who lived in Paris and her new job and her new perfect life. When I was visiting home a few years back, I’d bumped into Agatha Wellbelove and she’d told me about Bunce’s breakup with Micah. It was pretty mutual, apparently. They both saw it coming.   
  
Bunce had asked to meet up with me and I tried to put it off for a while. I wasn’t sure why the idea frightened me so much – probably something to do with keeping the past . . . in the past. I was afraid seeing Bunce would drag up things it would hurt to remember.   
  
Eventually though, I’d agreed. I’m glad I did, too. It was nice to catch up with someone from back home. And although we were unlikely to bump into each other again unless we planned it, it was comforting to have another friend in Paris. And I was relieved she didn’t mention . . . the past.   
  
We’ve met up a number of times since she moved here. The last time I saw her was the worst, because she mentioned him. It was a casual, throw-away comment, explaining something she’d told him over the phone the night before. And still, my heart leapt. 

She noticed it too. I could tell because her eyes widened slightly, as though she could read my mind. I had reached for my coffee to avoid her prying eyes, but it was too late. She could see the truth there in the hard tension of my jaw.   
  
That’s why now, when she texts wanting to meet up with me, I struggle to say yes. I don’t want her to bring him up. The idea of hearing his name, remembering his face. If she was to tell me he’s moved on, tell me he’s in a secure, happy relationship with someone else, I don’t know how I’d take that. I don’t want to find out.   
  
Apparently, I don’t take long enough to respond because all of a sudden, she’s calling me. Her name flashes up on my (luckily silent) phone. I answer with a huff.   
  
“Yes?” I say. The man sat across the table stares at me.   
  
“Did you get my text?” She asks hurriedly.   
  
“I saw it, yes.”   
  
“Well?”  
  
“Well what?”   
  
“Baz. Are we meeting tomorrow?”   
  
I take a moment to respond, just to drag it out. Then I say, “Fine. 2:00.”   
  
She lets out a relieved breath, “Brilliant.”   
  
After hanging up, I lean across the table to the glaring man and gesture to the phone. In French, I explain, “It’s my ex-wife. She won’t stop bugging me.”   
  
His accusatory gaze slowly shifts into a sympathetic one.   
  
I gather up my stuff and head home. 

**SIMON:**

“I didn’t know you had a thing about heights.”   
  
“Neither did I,” Penny says, holding her arms around herself. She’s sat under a tree and I’m stood beside her, trying to be a comfort.  
  
“I’m sorry for making you go up there,” I gesture in the vague direction of the Eiffel Tower.   
  
“I’ve been up there with Shep! I don’t know why it suddenly just occurred to me that I could . . . fall.” She shivers.   
  
I pat her head awkwardly, “Shall we go and find a coffee shop or something?” Looking up, I find a coffee shop right across the road. “Oh, there’s one there. Come on.”   
  
“No!” Penny says suddenly. She starts trying to get onto her feet and I help her. “I know a place. A sort of bakery pastry shop. Me and B – Shep go there all the time.”   
  
She puts her arm through mine. “Okay,” I smile. “Where is it?”   
  
“This way.” She leads us down another street, manoeuvring us out of the way of other pedestrians.   
  
“Are you feeling a bit better now?” I ask Penny after a few minutes. She nods enthusiastically, leaning in to put her head on my arm.   
  
Times like this, I miss how things used to be. Five years ago, Penny was my whole life. Everywhere she went, I went too. I would’ve followed her into the unknown. Anywhere she asked me to. Now, here we both stand: in Paris, as completely different people.   
  
Before coming here, I was worried that we might find ourselves feeling very disconnected from one another. After so long, it’s possible we wouldn’t know each other like we used to. I’m happy it’s still as easy as it used to be.   
  
“Simon,” she says then. I turn to glance at her and she continues, her words coming out slow and measured, “I know we don’t really talk about it anymore but . . . have you thought about getting back in contact with Baz?”   
  
My stomach drops. I haven’t heard his name in so long. It was easy at university to pretend the time we spent together never happened. With Penny, there’s no pretending.   
  
“You’re in Paris, after all,” she says.   
  
I let out a calm breath.   
  
“I don’t know, Penny.” She tilts her head to the side, silently telling me to carry on. I huff, “I know he still lives here. I, um, saw it on Facebook.” My face flushes. In moments of weakness, I find my way onto his profile. I regret it every time.   
  
“Would you want to talk to him? Catch up?”   
  
“I’m going back to the UK,” I say. “It’ll be like that summer all over again. Saying goodbye, again.”   
  
She shrugs then, an expression on her face that I’m not familiar with. Almost like she’s . . . plotting.   
  
“It’s here,” she says after a moment, pointing to a small café in front of us. A young couple are sat outside with two cups of coffee and a huge slice of cake. Penny sees me eyeing the food and chuckles, “Happy to sit here?”  
  
“Very,” I say. She squints through the glass into the café, gesturing for me to go inside first.   
  
I reach for the door, pulling it open when all of a sudden, a body crashes into mine. Warm coffee collides with my t-shirt, making it stick to my chest.   
  
“I’m so sorry!” I start saying immediately, feeling I’m completely to blame. I reach for the coffee cup on the ground.   
  
As I’m getting back on my feet, my head snaps up to the stranger whose afternoon I’ve probably ruined. With their head down, I can’t catch a look at their face, but the hair – long, dark, lustrous hair. My heart hammers in my chest. _Impossible._  
  
Then his head snaps up. His wicked grey eyes are narrowed, his lips pressed tightly together. Five years have passed and here he is – still exceptionally beautiful, staring at me like he can see beyond my skin, like he can hear the cage my heart is trapped in.   
  
He remains composed. He must’ve caught sight of me before I leant down to pick up his coffee cup. I, on the other hand, can do nothing other than stand there with my lips parted and eyes widened.   
  
_Not so impossible_ , I think to myself. 

**BAZ:**

Simon Snow is in front of me. Simon Snow is stood in the doorway of my favourite bakery, in Paris, in front of me, with my coffee soaking through his t-shirt.   
  
His eyes are attached to mine and he can’t seem to pull himself away. It’s been too long. I let myself forget the sea blue of his eyes, the unruly mess of bronze curls, the sharp curve of his jaw, his pink lips and the moles he let me kiss over the last summer we spent together. These are the things I’ve spent five years wishing I could forget.   
  
For a while, I thought I had. In the most recent years, I found my mind rarely leading back to him. I allowed myself to believe I was getting over him. I think maybe, eventually, I could have.   
  
Then again, seeing him stood before me, his mouth shaping a perfect ‘o’, his t-shirt sticking to his chest, I think getting over him was a long journey away.   
  
I let my eyes wander across his face. He’s still the same Simon Snow, but with his hair styled more, cut shorter at the sides. He’s visibly matured, blatant in the chiselled structure of his jaw and the slight shadow of facial hair. He’s bigger too. Broader shoulders and more filled out, as if he’s been eating better. But he’s the same Simon.   
  
“Baz!” A voice says from beside me. It takes me a moment to pull my eyes away from Snow. My eyes find Bunce stood there, her lips curling in a smirk, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Nice to see you,” she says, a glint of mischief in her eyes.   
  
She planned this. Clever, clever Penelope Bunce. Well played.   
  
“I was just leaving,” I say. Snow is still staring at me, dumbstruck, but I refuse to meet his eyes again.   
  
I arrived at 2:00 to meet Bunce and ended up waiting for an hour for her to arrive. Eventually I’d had enough and took my coffee to go. My coffee, which is now drenched over Snow’s chest.   
  
“Don’t leave because of us,” Bunce says then, acting as if I haven’t been waiting for her. “We can all sit together, right, Simon?”   
  
Snow seems to snap out of his trance, shaking his head slightly, a stray curl falling onto his forehead. He pushes it back and stammers, “I, um – I don’t think, well, I have no problem – I suppose.”   
  
Bunce grins at his response, looking only at me with her teeth baring. I keep my lips firmly pressed together, refusing to show my amusement at his words.   
  
“You owe me a coffee,” I say. He frowns until I gesture with a simple flick of my eyebrows towards his wet t-shirt.   
  
His mouth curls slightly at the ends and he clears his throat before saying, “Yes, I suppose I do.”   
  
“Let’s go inside then,” Bunce says excitedly. She claps her hands together once and leads the way into the café.   
  
“I’ll get a table,” I mutter to Bunce before wandering over to the other side of the café and claiming a round table with three chairs. When I glance up across the room, I notice Snow has disappeared. Bunce catches my eye and mouths ‘toilet’, before winking. I scowl at her until she looks away with a smile.   
  
Bunce and I come here often enough that she knows my order, so when she’s asked what she would like, I’m not surprised that she points to a pain au chocolat and a pain au raisin. We usually have half each. She also gestures to one of the large chocolate cookies, presumably for Snow.   
  
When he comes back around the corner from the bathroom, he’s holding his ruined t-shirt scrunched up in one hand. Instead, he’s wearing his jacket with the zip done up almost to the top so nobody will be able to tell he doesn’t have anything on underneath. The only problem is that I know. And now I can’t stop thinking about it.   
  
He stands beside Bunce whilst they wait for the coffees. Even from across the room, I can tell they’re squabbling. Snow has his eyebrows furrowed, a crinkle on his forehead and Bunce is huffing and puffing at everything he says.   
  
Snow, it appears, was also unaware he would be seeing me today.   
  
When they get to the table, they act as if they were never arguing. Bunce is all smiles and positivity and Snow is back to being awkward and shy.   
  
I take a sip of my boiling hot latte and immediately regret it when it scolds my tongue. “So,” I say uncertainly. “How have you been?”   
  
The question is directed at Snow, but he doesn’t realise for a moment. When he glances up from his cookie and sees me watching him, his cheeks flush and he says, “Oh, um, pretty okay. Pretty good.”   
  
I nod and ask, “Are you still living in Cardiff?” as if I don’t already know the answer from his Facebook page.   
  
“Yeah, I’ve got a job there now.”  
  
“How is it?”   
  
He shrugs and deflects the question, “How are you?”   
  
“Pretty good,” I say, mocking his answer. The tips of his ears are a fantastic pink colour. I try not to stare, “I’m at the University most of the time. I’m hoping to be a professor.”   
  
“Of what?”   
  
“Philosophy,” I say. His eyes widen slightly, as if he’s impressed. Bunce sips at her hot chocolate and gazes out the window. She already knows all of this about me.   
  
“How’s your French?” Snow asks then. I can’t help the way a smile threatens to appear.   
  
“Je pense que c’est assez impressionnant. Parlez-vous Français?”   
  
Snow’s mouth falls open and Bunce stifles a laugh, telling me, “Simon can’t speak French,” in French herself. Bunce’s grasp on the language has improved since she moved here. She still hates it when I speak excessively in French just to annoy her.   
  
“Can’t he?” I say in French, knowing now only Bunce can understand me.   
  
“What did you say?” Snow asks, eyes bouncing between Bunce and me.   
  
Bunce asks me, “Are you upset I didn’t tell you?”   
  
“It would’ve been nice to know,” I say. Snow is staring at us, ripping a piece of cookie off and popping it in his mouth. “I understand why you didn’t tell me though.”   
  
“You wouldn’t have come?” She asks.   
  
_I don’t know if I’d have enough self-control to stop myself._  
  
I nod anyway. I look at the messy curls falling onto Snow’s forehead, “He’s changed.”   
  
“Not really,” Bunce says. “I mean, yes, he has. He’s been through all sorts these last five years.”  
  
I want to ask her what she means but Snow folds his arms across his chest and says, “This isn’t fun anymore,” so we go back to speaking English.   
  
“When do you go back?” I find myself asking. I wasn’t expecting to say it, but the words come out of me suddenly.   
  
“Three days.” He looks at his plate as he says it.   
  
It’s as if all of a sudden it occurs to me exactly what I’m doing. What I’m putting myself through.   
  
I can’t just pretend these last five years haven’t passed us by. I can’t act like I’m the same Baz he knew back home; the same boy whose hand he held the night after my mother died; the same boy who kissed him at a party or even the same boy who got on a plane at the end of the best summer of my life.   
  
I’m not the same Baz. And he’s not the same Simon. We can’t just resume our positions and pretend we haven’t managed all of this time without each other.   
  
He’s going back to England in three days. We are not eighteen anymore; the summer is over.   
  
“I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ve got some work to do.” I stand up abruptly and both of them watch me try to find the right words to leave with. “Thanks for the coffee,” I say with a forced smile.   
  
Then, before either of them can say anything, I turn on my heel and head out of the café. 

**SIMON:**

I can’t stop thinking about him.   
  
I can’t.   
  
Penny and I wander back to her place from the café and my mind is still on Baz. I think about the way he looked when the sunlight shone in from the café windows.   
  
I take a shower and think about the way his lips curved around his coffee cup.   
  
I go out for dinner and think about the way his deep voice enunciated every French word that left his lips.   
  
I sit outside of Shep’s unopened café for some fresh air, and all I can think about is him.   
  
I think I dreamt of him last night.   
  
I don’t need to tell Penny. She knows before I even open my mouth. The next morning, she says, with a dubious expression, “You still have his number.”   
  
I hesitate for too long and end up saying nothing.   
  
Her eyes drift over to the clock above her bookcase, then back to me, “He’ll probably be at the library now.” She takes my phone and taps something into Google Maps before sliding it back to me, “This one.”   
  
I frown at the directions on my phone. “What would I even say?”   
  
She shrugs, tapping her nails against her coffee mug, “The truth?” 

-

The library is huge, but Penny gave me an idea of exactly where he’d be. Still, I can’t help but feel very out of place. So instead of storming through the rooms, I wander aimlessly through the shelves of books, pretending to be looking for something.   
  
A young man down one of the aisles asks me something in French. My head snaps up and I stare cluelessly at him until he cracks a smile and tries again in English, “Can I help you look for something?” His voice is heavily accented.   
  
I notice the badge hanging on his belt, showing me he works here. “I’m okay, thank you.” He nods and goes to turn away before I ask, “Actually, can you point me in the direction of the philosophy section?”   
  
He gives me brief directions, pointing with his forefinger towards the other side of the library. I smile and thank him.   
  
I find the philosophy section and a long table of computers. I immediately notice him, his head bent over a computer. He has his hair tied up in a messy bun, some loose strands framing his face. His jaw is set, his eyes trailing across the screen.   
  
He looks like he’s concentrating, and he looks like he’s stressed. I feel guilty for coming. So much so that I try to hastily turn around and make my way out without being seen. Only, as soon as I turn around, I bump directly into the same young man who directed me here.   
  
“Sorry!” I say loudly in the otherwise silent library. All heads swivel around to look at the disruption. “Did I hurt you?” I ask the man, voice lowered.   
  
“I’m okay,” he says, smoothing down his shirt. “Did you find what you were looking for?”   
  
I look over my shoulder and find Baz, now stood up and making his way over to me. In relief, I notice he doesn’t appear annoyed. He looks quite amused, actually.   
  
“Yes,” I tell the man. “I did.”   
  
Baz stops next to me, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. He still holds those few inches of height over me. “Causing trouble?” He whispers. I don’t realise I’m smiling until his gaze moves down to my mouth.   
  
I don’t notice that the young man has left until I glance over and find him retreating to his trolley of books. Baz gestures for me to follow him back. I take the seat next to him.   
  
“What are you doing here, Snow?” He doesn’t seem angry or put out, just curious.   
  
“Penny said you would most likely be here,” I say, although that doesn’t technically answer his question. He realises it isn’t an answer too, so he purses his lips and waits for me to continue. I tell him honestly, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”   
  
My words shock him.   
  
His grey eyes widen ever so slightly and his usually pale cheeks start to turn pink. He gulps, seemingly lost for words.   
  
“I’m sorry if that wasn’t the right thing to say.”   
  
He shakes his head quickly, “No, it was.”   
  
“I know I’m only here for three days. And I know it’s stupid to even . . . I know it might not be the smartest idea but . . . can I take you out to dinner? Tonight? Or tomorrow?”   
  
He sucks in a deep breath and exhales slowly. It takes so long for him to respond that I begin to think I’ve really overstepped. I’m about to apologise, tell him to forget I said anything and run out of here, when he finally cracks a smile.   
  
“It is stupid,” he says. “But yes, you can take me to dinner tonight.”   
  
My heart is ready to explode. I’m so happy to hear his answer that in that moment, I can’t even think of one reason as to why this is a bad idea.   


  
**BAZ:**

“You are so unhelpful. I don’t know why I keep you around,” I say in frustration.   
  
Bunce, her face on my phone screen from where I’ve propped it up against my mirror, lets out a chuckle, “Because I’m your best friend now.”   
  
“That’s not even nearly true,” I say, although I suppose she’s pretty close. If I hadn’t met Matthew in my second year of University and Grace in my first, she might be right. But Grace is on holiday in Egypt at the moment with her new girlfriend and Matthew hasn’t messaged me in about a week, so Bunce is my only option.   
  
“Try the first shirt on again,” she says. She told me Snow hasn’t left his room in a couple of hours, but he’s supposed to be here in forty-five minutes for our date. I told her if he ever finds out I was asking Bunce for fashion advice, she could say goodbye to our coffee dates forever.   
  
I do as she says, standing in front of the camera with my hands on my hips, wearing a simple black shirt with a few purple flowers on it. It’s loose and comfortable, which is one of the reasons why I bought it in the first place.   
  
“I like this,” she says. “It goes nicely with the black jeans, but it’s not too boring.”   
  
“Why didn’t you say this the first time I tried it on?” She doesn’t respond so I ask, “Hair up or down?”   
  
“Down.” She starts filing her nails as she’s talking to me, “Are you nervous?” I scoff in response and she smiles, “Are you excited?”   
  
“It’s weird,” I admit. “Yesterday morning I still thought I was never going to see him again.”  
  
“Are you glad you have seen him?” When I go to respond, she suddenly cuts me off with a, “Okay he’s coming out of his room! Good luck tonight,” before hanging up.   
  
_Yes_ , my answer would’ve been. _I’ve missed him_. 

**SIMON:**

I’m waiting outside Baz’s apartment complex and I can’t stop fidgeting.   
  
I move my weight from one foot to the other, looking down at my outfit. Penny said I looked fine, but now I’m wondering whether she was being honest. I had to borrow some formal black trousers from Shep, since everything I bought was too casual. They’re a bit tighter than I would usually wear them but I don’t think anyone will notice. I’m wearing a white button-up shirt tucked into them.   
  
I undo another button on the shirt whilst I wait. And then I worry that my chest is too exposed, so I do it up again.   
  
Baz comes through the doors at 8:04. His lips curve when he sees me and he walks over. I take a moment to appreciate his skinny jeans and loose black shirt. As he gets closer, I can make out the deep purple flowers on his shirt.   
  
“You look . . .” I trail off dumbly. There’s no correct word to describe him. I settle for, “Beautiful.” It’s a word I’ve always used to describe him, but right now, it’s not enough.   
  
He flushes red anyway.   
  
We walk alongside each other. It’s a Tuesday night so the streets aren’t very busy and for the most part, we’re able to walk comfortably next to one another without being bumped into.   
  
“Where are you taking me, Simon Snow?” He asks.  
  
I grin, “You’ll see.”   
  
Penny suggested it. Before I got ready for our date, I scoured the internet for reviews on the place, and then I booked a table.   
  
I stop suddenly outside the restaurant and Baz, unaware of where we’re going, ceases his story about the weird professor he had in his second year of university.   
  
“Sorry,” I say, for cutting him off. “This is it. Have you been here before?”   
  
He lifts his head, dark eyes inspecting the restaurant’s exterior. I wait nervously.   
  
“I haven’t,” he says. “It looks nice.”  
  
I hold the door open and allow him to walk inside first, closely passing me by. He smells as he always did – like his expensive shampoo, cedar and bergamot.   
  
The waiter leads us to our table. My palms are sweating. Baz seems calm and composed, sitting opposite me. My mind immediately wanders, identifying ways in which this date could go wrong; the burning candle in the middle of the table could catch onto my sleeve; the food I order could get stuck in my teeth.   
  
But Baz shakes his hair out of his face and smiles politely as the waiter hands him a menu, his eyes dancing around the room, and it’s as if nothing else matters.   
  
I’m in Paris with him.   
  
“You really do look lovely,” I tell him. He starts to blush, moving the large menu to shield his face. I laugh and lean across the table to move the menu down. He’s smiling bashfully.   
  
“How’d you found out about this place?” He asks, gazing around the room. It’s a small restaurant, the walls lined with painted portraits.   
  
“Penny,” I say honestly.   
  
Baz hums, “So she really didn’t tell you I was going to be at the café yesterday?”   
  
I shake my head, “It was . . . a shock.”   
  
“That’s one way to put it.”   
  
The waiter reappears, pouring us both a glass of wine and leaving the rest of the bottle on the table. He takes our orders before disappearing again.   
  
“You weren’t expecting to see me whilst you were here?” Baz asks. The question surprises me.  
  
“Paris is a big city. I didn’t think I was going to run into you.”   
  
He takes a sip of wine, keeping his eyes trained on the glass as he says, “Weird to think I would’ve never known you were here.”   
  
“Baz . . .” I cut myself off. I want to tell him why I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him again. But it sounds ridiculous to explain it, now that I’m here on a date with him, ignoring my own rules.   
  
His lips curl slightly. I think he already knows why.   
  
He says, “So tell me about your job.”   
  
“There’s not much to say.”   
  
“That can’t be true.” He taps his forefinger against the wine glass, waiting.   
  
The truth leaves my mouth in an unexpected wave, “It’s not what I thought it would be. It’s not what I want.”   
  
He pushes his hair back, “What do you want?”   
  
_You,_ I almost say, like an idiot.   
  
“I haven’t worked it out yet,” I tell him. “Is that bad? I’m twenty-three and I don’t know what I want.”   
  
“It’s not bad. Not bad at all.”   
  
Somewhere between my sips of wine and honest words, I stop feeling nervous, and start to really enjoy myself. 

-

When the meal is over and I’ve paid (despite Baz’s pleas to split the bill), he stands up from his chair and steps in the direction of the exit. 

I catch his elbow. “Hey, where are you going?” 

He furrows his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. 

I grin, “Come on.” 

He follows me cluelessly to the other side of the restaurant. “Snow, what –”  
  
I reach a door on the far side. Above it, written in cursive writing, is the word ‘ _Danse_ ’. I push it open and walk inside, instantly immersed by the graceful music and dancing bodies.   
  
I glance back to catch Baz reacting to the room, his eyebrows high, mouth slightly parted. His eyes drift from the handsome pianist, to the excessive dance floor, to the bar in the corner of the room.   
  
“Drink?” I ask Baz, leaning close. He nods.   
  
Whilst the barman prepares our drinks, Baz catches my eye and asks, “This was your plan all along?”   
  
I bite my lip and watch as his eyes flicker to my mouth and back up again. “Like it?”   
  
He glances at the dancefloor again, “Some of these people are very good dancers. Are you prepared to be shown up?”   
  
“Always,” I say.   
  
The barman returns with two colourful looking drinks. Baz tries to pay again, sighing heavily when I refuse to let him. He places his elbows on the bar, leaning close to his drink, trying to navigate the straw towards his mouth. I’m too distracted to answer the barman when he asks if there’s anything else we’d like.   
  
Baz’s eyelashes flutter towards me, smirking when he notices me staring. “We’re good, thank you,” he answers in my place. The barman nods and disappears somewhere.   
  
Baz stands up straight again, leaning his left side against the bar and moving his drink to his mouth. “This is good. What’s yours like?”   
  
I tear my eyes from him and take a sip of my own cocktail. “It’s nice. Fruity. I don’t drink a lot of cocktails.”   
  
“Still just drink beers?” He says in a teasing tone. I blink. Our summer together flashes through my mind. Sitting on the beach, sand in my shoes, drinking beers and pressing myself to his chest, dancing.   
  
Does he remember it too?  
  
“And wine,” I protest. “I like a glass of wine.”   
  
“Red?” He asks and I make a puking sound. He lets out a short laugh, “It’s not that bad.”   
  
“White wine is superior,” I say. Then, “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”   
  
“You’re right. We should be dancing,” Baz nods to my glass, “Finish your drink.”   
  
He finishes his first. His eyes drift continuously between the dancefloor and me, like he’s tethered to both. He looks tipsy now, his movements slow and careful, his eyes glassy. It’s a strange, familiar sight. During our summer, this Baz – the merry, blissful, unguarded one – was one I looked forward to seeing (although it sounds silly, because the truth is I looked forward to seeing _every_ Baz, _always_ ).   
  
I place my empty glass on the bar and turn back to him. He’s already looking at me, a small smile on his lips. He stands straight, crossing the distance between us and holding out his hand.   
  
My eyes flicker briefly from his face to his offered hand. My own hand slides into his, goosebumps appearing under my sleeve, along my arm. Five years. It’s been five years.   
  
His face softens and he leads me onto the dancefloor, walking backwards and managing not to bump into anyone. He stops abruptly and I’m caught off guard but manage to stabilise myself, pressing my trainers into the floor.   
  
“Okay?” Baz says. The pianist is playing beautifully. There are people dancing all around us, but I can only pay attention to him.   
  
I nod. Baz uses his hold on my hand to pull me closer. I fall submissively towards him, letting out a surprised gasp when my chest hits his. With his free hand, he takes my arm and leads it to his shoulder. My hand hangs limply at first, and then I’m wrapping it around the back of his neck.   
  
He was concentrating on guiding me but when my hand comes into contact with his skin, his head snaps up, face slightly flushed. He secures his arm around my waist and I jump slightly at the touch, surprised. Good surprised.   
  
“You’re leading,” I say, quietly. He rearranges our hands, keeping them together and entwining our fingers.   
  
“Mhm.” He smirks, “I see one thing that hasn’t changed in these five years is your terrible dancing skills.”   
  
“Hey,” I say, squeezing his hand. “What am I doing wrong?” At that exact moment, my steps falter and I stand on his foot. He winces and I add, “Other than that.”   
  
“Did your university friends see your dancing?” He asks and I nod. “And they were still friends with you? No way.”   
  
I chuckle, “Well, we didn’t dance like this at uni. More like, jumping up and down and enthusiastic hand gestures.”   
  
He grins then, baring his teeth. It’s a wonderful sight. “Did you enjoy uni?”   
  
“Yeah, I really did. I met a lot of good people. Made a lot of memories.”   
  
“That’s brilliant.” He looks like he genuinely means it.   
  
“And what about you? Is it like you’d hoped it would be?”  
  
“Better, in some ways.”   
  
Good. He got what he wanted. He found his place. And he didn’t leave for nothing.   
  
“So,” I say. “What did you think when you saw me, after all this time?”   
  
He looks away from me, in the direction of the bar. A flush rises, turning his face pink.   
  
He doesn’t answer, so I say, in all honesty, “I thought I was dreaming.”   
  
He laughs quietly, looking down. The sound vibrates against my chest. “You froze,” he points out.   
  
“Too good to be true,” I mutter and he smiles despite himself. I add, “You haven’t changed. Not much.”   
  
He finally looks at me, eyes searching my face uncertainly, “You have.”   
  
“Yeah?” He nods once. “How?”   
  
“Your hair,” he says, his eyes trailing to my curls. “Styled differently, longer on top.”   
  
“I need a haircut,” I say self-consciously.  
  
“No,” he says softly. “I like it.” He glances at my mouth, “You’ve started growing facial hair a lot more.” I shaved yesterday, but there’s a shadow from where it would grow if I hadn’t. His lips quirk slightly and his eyes drop to my shoulders, “You’re . . .” He clears his throat, “Bigger. More muscular.”   
  
I grin, watching him blush. I started going to the gym regularly at university because a friend of mine, Natalie, had an obsession with keeping fit. She used to pretend to be my personal trainer, pushing me to my limits. Sometimes I thought I might die from all the exercise but right now, seeing Baz’s reaction, I can’t thank Natalie enough for her nagging.   
  
“You’re still taller than me,” I remark, jutting my chin upwards. “You know that used to infuriate me.”   
  
“I know,” Baz says fondly. “I remember.”  
  
I lean closer, slowly pressing my nose into his neck. I let out a breath and he shivers against me. My lips form the beginning of a smile. “I don’t mind so much anymore,” I tell him. 

-

I walk Baz home after our date. We’re both tipsy, falling out of step on the path, bumping into each other. Occasionally, I’ll say something to make him laugh and he’ll tip his head back towards the sky. It’s the most wonderful feeling.   
  
His hip bumps mine and I glance up with a smile on my face. He looks serious all of a sudden, eyebrows pinched together. I ask, “What is it?”   
  
“You, um . . .” He falters, biting the inside of his cheek, trying again, “You never found anybody? All these years.”   
  
He looks uncomfortable as he waits for an answer. The last five years of my life trail behind me; forgotten memories coming back to me suddenly.   
  
“No,” I say. “I mean, there were people but . . . nobody for me.”   
  
The truth lingers on my tongue. The words I refuse to say. Alessia, who I went on some dates with in my first year of uni. Finn, who helped me feel wanted again, but not for long. Daisy, who was better off as one of my closest friends. Alex, who, on my travel year in Italy, distracted me; we made each other happy, for a while.  
  
_None of them were you. I couldn’t forget. I came to the conclusion that it would never happen again for me. You were my one chance. And I let you leave._  
  
“What about you?” I ask. Then, in an awkwardly jovial tone, “No French boys take your fancy?”   
  
He shakes his head, “No. I thought, maybe, but . . . no.”   
  
I don’t pressure him to explain. He doesn’t continue.   
  
I let out a breathless laugh and he turns to me, surprised. I exclaim, “Weird, isn’t it? Five years later, and here we are again.”   
  
He cracks a smile, then laughs along with me.   
  
Five years later and I end up in Paris, in Baz’s new home, and he’s single. Luck really must be on our side.   
  
Then again, if luck was on our side, I wouldn’t be going back home in less than two days. 

**BAZ:**

Snow and I stop outside of my apartment complex. He’s tilting his head up, inspecting the building and I’m panicking, wondering whether to ask him to come inside. He looks back at me, a small, nervous smile on his lips.   
  
“This is it, then,” he says awkwardly, rocking back and forth on his heels.   
  
“Yeah,” I breathe.   
  
I wish I didn’t have to ask. I wish he just knew what I wanted. A long time ago, he might’ve been able to tell just by the look in my eyes.   
  
“This was really . . .” He stumbles over his words, unsure. “Thank you for coming on this date with me.”   
  
“Thank you for asking,” I say sincerely. _I didn’t know it could be like this._  
  
He bites his lip, “Well, see you around . . .” He doesn’t move. I don’t either. He puts his hands in his pockets and lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’m finding it difficult to leave,” he admits.   
  
“Then don’t,” I say slowly. “You could come up.”   
  
His face splits into a grin and I have to look away from him, my neck feeling hot. He follows me into the building, keeping at a sensible distance from me in the lift. His big blue eyes dart about everywhere.   
  
I twist my key into the lock and push open my apartment, allowing him to walk inside first. He looks around curiously, lips slightly parted.   
  
“Woah,” he says when I switch the lights on. “This is a nice place.”   
  
“Do you want a drink?” I ask, making my way over to the kitchen island and drumming my fingers against it.   
  
“Maybe just a water?”  
  
“Sobering up?” I tease.   
  
“I’m not _drunk_ ,” he scoffs.   
  
I place his water on the island and he reaches for it. I pour myself a glass of wine and nod towards the other side of the room, “We could sit on the balcony?” He agrees, trailing after me with his glass of water.   
  
There’s a two-seater on my balcony and a small coffee table in front. Snow puts his water down and sits beside me, legs outstretched. I put my feet on the sofa, folding my legs up and sipping my glass of wine.   
  
“When were you last in the UK?” He asks, rubbing his hands nervously down his thighs. It’s endearing to watch.   
  
“Christmas,” I say.   
  
“How’s your sister?”   
  
I chuckle, “Older now. Still causing trouble.”   
  
“What’s she doing?”   
  
“Finishing off sixth form. She wants to go into politics,” I say proudly.   
  
He smiles, “She’d be good at that.”   
  
I lean over and place my wine on the table. When I settle back, Snow is looking at me. His eyes are wide and uncertain. I remember that look; it’s the same one he used to have right before he kissed me. The expression screams confusion and frustration and hesitancy, as though I’m a math problem that he can’t quite figure out.   
  
I put my feet on the ground, leaving space between us. Giving him the option to make a move. He gulps.   
  
Nothing happens for a long moment, so I wonder if I’ve misread the situation. I begin to say, “You know, that pasta earlier was really something –”  
  
“Baz . . .” Snow says in a low voice. He leans across the space between us, his hand against the cushions, holding himself up.   
  
He moves his other hand up, slowly cupping the side of my jaw. I brush my cheek affectionately against his hand and he watches in bewilderment. He moves into my space, so close that I can feel his breath against my mouth.   
  
He brushes his lips against mine at first. It’s barely a touch, but it’s enough to make my heart race. My eyes flutter closed as he edges closer, his lips closing around mine in a short, experimental, innocent kiss. Just his mouth against mine.   
  
He pulls away too soon, taking his hand away from my face and sitting comfortably back in his seat. He’s observing me, waiting, wondering, thinking.   
  
I surge forward, across the distance between us and Simon, who was expecting it, slips his fingers into my hair. Our lips meet, fire igniting, heart thumping, clock ticking.   
  
He lets out a pleased sound, smiling against my lips. The smile drops when I place a hand on his thigh and I kiss him harder, slipping my tongue into his mouth. Our kisses are open-mouthed, hot, desperate.   
  
I move into a more comfortable position, placing one leg between Snow’s thighs. He helps me relax, guiding me by his hold on my hips. I wrap my arms around his neck for stability, fingers pushing his curls back.   
  
He kisses me as if he’ll never have to stop, gripping my hips like he’s never going to let go. He tilts his head to the left, tongue teasing along my lips. He tastes like fruity cocktails.   
  
He uses the new angle to navigate the kiss, moving his chin in a way he knows I used to like. Kissing Simon Snow is like memory foam. The chin movement and the heated motion of his tongue triggers me to release a frustrated groan. And then a thought occurs to me: the notion that Simon has kissed other people like this.   
  
Jealousy flares in the pit of my stomach and I break away from Simon’s lips. He opens his mouth to protest but I peck his lips once, then move my mouth to his jaw. His face structure has changed; his jawline sharper than I’ve ever seen it. With my lips pressed to it, he sighs, dropping his head back and allowing me more room.   
  
I press open-mouthed kisses to his neck, but I can’t reach far with his button-up shirt in the way. My fingers reach towards the top buttons, beginning to undo them. When enough are undone, I push the shirt away from his shoulder and press my hand against his exposed chest. Musclier, more defined, as I suspected.   
  
He squeezes my hips in approval. I lean down, kissing his collarbone. From above me, his breaths are laboured as I move my mouth further up, finding a spot below his ear that makes him grunt. I start to suck, pressing my teeth there. He hisses, breaths becoming heavier.   
  
Suddenly I pull away from him, dazedly finding my feet. He looks up at me, his eyes wide and darkened, his hands still where they were when he was holding me.   
  
“Come on,” I say. He doesn’t need any more convincing. In fact, he hops up onto his feet, enthusiastically following me inside.   
  
I push the balcony door closed. As I’m turning back around, Snow pushes me against the glass, holding me there by the grip he’s got on my wrists, pressing them above my head. His eyes flicker between my eyes and mouth, tongue running along his bottom lip.   
  
I try to move my arms but he keeps them against the glass. A sound of frustration bubbles up in my throat and I say, “Please, Simon. Kiss me.”   
  
He smirks at my words, moving my arms together so he can hold them tight with just one hand. He moves his other hand to my jaw and presses our lips together roughly.   
  
He kisses me so hard that I lose my breath. I’m breathing harshly through my nose, eyes fluttering in delight when he bites my bottom lip.   
  
“Which door is your bedroom?” He asks, his voice gravelly and muffled by my mouth.   
  
I nod over at the door on the far side of the room, “That one.”   
  
He grunts, letting my arms go so he can grab my hand and lead me into the bedroom. I sit down on the edge of the bed and kick off my shoes. He takes his own off, almost stumbling to the ground. I put my hand over my mouth to hide my laughter.   
  
He narrows his eyes, stepping towards me, standing between my open legs. He tilts my head up and leans in, placing his lips against mine again. It doesn’t take long for our kisses to turn frantic.   
  
He reaches down, fiddling with the hem of my loose shirt. “Take it off,” I tell him and he lifts it above my head, tossing it to the other side of the room. He gazes down at my stomach, five years of patience and longing flashing across his eyes.   
  
My fingers touch the bottom of his own shirt and I undo the remaining buttons, reaching up to slide the shirt from his shoulders. Hot, lingering desire pools in the bottom of my stomach. Simon Snow is _fit_. I mean, this was always the case. But now his biceps are much too big to fit my hand around and his abs are fully defined.   
  
I lean forward, pressing a kiss to his stomach. He tenses against the touch, his hands running through my hair. He uses that grip to softly pull my head back, bending down to connect our lips.   
  
Heated, passionate kisses. He places a hand flat against my chest and pushes me against the bed. I move myself back against the pillows and watch as Simon crawls closer, straddling my hips and holding himself above me, hands either side of my head.   
  
He waits, a lazy smile on his lips, so that I have to lean up to kiss him. My breath hitches when he lowers himself against me, hips grinding against my own and creating contact. I groan into his mouth when he does it again, arching my back to meet him halfway. He lets out a surprised, unsteady breath at the movement.   
  
He stops kissing me, keeping a distance between our faces, watching my face as he creates friction between us again. My mouth is open, chest heaving with every dizzying breath. His pupils are blown wide and he reaches down to the zipper on my jeans.   
  
“Is this okay?” He asks softly, pressing his lips to mine. I nod, reaching for his trousers at the same time. It is a struggle to get them both off but eventually, they land together in a pile on the floor.   
  
Simon’s eyes trail down my body and back up again. He captures my lips with his, tongue dipping into my mouth. I’m caught up in the feel of his lips on mine, the sensation of Simon Snow pressing me against my bed sheets. His hand draws down my stomach, reaching the hem of my boxers.   
  
Then he dips inside, wrapping his hand around me. My mouth stills against his, open and pliant, stomach simmering with desire. He kisses my cheek, nosing my jaw, mouthing below my ear, hand beginning to move.   
  
I tilt my head up, eyes closing. It’s too good. It’s everything. It’s not enough.   
  
“What do you want?” Simon whispers against my ear.   
  
“Everything,” I breathe. He meets my fluttering eyes and nods in understanding.   
  
“Do you have –”  
  
This time I nod, eyes flickering to the bedside table.   
  
I bring Simon towards me, guiding him by my hold on the back of his head. I press a bruising kiss to his lips, rendering us both breathless.   
  
We found each other, once again. And this night belongs to us. 

**SIMON:**

Last time I woke up beside Baz, we were five years younger, and he was leaving to get on a plane to Paris.   
  
I remember it vividly: the night before, I’d had the absurd idea to just _turn up at his house_ , because the thought of not saying goodbye properly didn’t make sense to me. But as soon as I turned up, drenched with rain from head to toe, standing on his doorstep with his little sister staring me down, I felt like a fool.   
  
I stopped feeling like a fool when I kissed him, and he kissed me back. _One last time_ , I thought, _I get to have this one last time._  
  
That morning, my eyes slowly became accustomed to the light flooding in from the open curtains. Baz was sat up beside me, bed sheets covering his lower half, rubbing his eyes tiredly. I had tried to pull him back to me, wrapping an arm around his waist, but all I got was a quiet, “No, Simon. I’ve got to pack the rest of my stuff.”   
  
So I’d watched him walk around the room, packing the rest of his things into suitcases. “I should probably leave,” I’d said eventually, after catching him put my copy of ‘1984’ into his luggage.   
  
He didn’t respond, but he stood up straight, hands on his hips as I took my dry clothes off the radiator and got dressed. I thought I was just supposed to leave silently, but when I reached for the door handle, Baz had rushed across the room and kissed me senseless.   
  
So, the last time I woke up next to Baz was the worst time I’ve ever woken up next to Baz.   
  
This time might be the best.   
  
He’s still asleep, but he’s facing me on his side. His nose is pressed into the pillow, lips slightly parted. His dark hair contrasts completely with the white sheets, splayed wildly across the pillow. The duvet stops mid-stomach, revealing the pale, perfect skin of his chest. He looks like a dream.   
  
He stirs suddenly, stretching slowly and falling onto his back. His grey eyes flicker open, squinting at the light coming from the gap in the blinds. He finds me gazing at him and his lips start to form a smile.   
  
“Creep,” he mutters.   
  
“You’re unfairly handsome in the mornings,” I tell him, settling my head back on the pillow next to his.   
  
“Bet you tell all the ladies that,” he teases, pushing his hair off his forehead.   
  
I reach across the space, hooking an arm over his waist and pulling him towards my chest. He makes a tired sound of protest, which quickly dissolves when he turns around in my arms, wrapping his arm around me and pressing his nose into my neck.   
  
“’M still tired,” he grumbles.   
  
“Sleep, then.”   
  
He hums, the sound vibrating against my chest. His lips press against the crook of my neck. He settles, arms still around me, and his breathing evens out when he falls back asleep.   
  
I find myself drifting into sleep too. When I wake, Baz has turned around in my arms so I’m spooning him. Our legs are tangled together. I feel him fidget against the sheets, reaching for my arm around him and lacing our fingers together.   
  
“What time is it?” He asks when I squeeze my hand against his.   
  
I glance over his shoulder, at the clock on his bedside table. “10:30. We slept for ages.”   
  
“I don’t usually sleep for that long.”   
  
“You slept in my arms.”  
  
He scoffs, “Fitfully.” There’s no spite to it, especially when he brings our joined hands to his mouth and kisses the moles on my hand, delicately, one at a time.   
  
I hear a buzzing from across the room and sigh, “That’s my phone. It’s in my trouser pocket. Can you get it?”   
  
Baz sleepily says, “No way.”   
  
“Please.” I press my lips to his exposed shoulder.   
  
“Why should I?”  
  
“You’re closer. It’s literally on the floor next to you.”  
  
“’M not moving,” he says. Then, to prove his point further, he flips over and buries his head in my neck again.   
  
“You’re a terrible person,” I say, deadpanned.   
  
“Oh really?” He mutters, his mouth moving against my skin.   
  
“I don’t know why I put up with you.”   
  
“I think I know why,” he says in a mischievous tone, moving his thigh into the space between my legs.   
  
My breath hitches, “You’re the worst.”   
  
He chuckles, head moving against me. My phone starts to buzz again and I groan, using inhuman strength to pull away from Baz and drape myself across the bed, reaching for my trousers. He falls against the pillows and sighs heavily in defeat. I take my phone out of the pocket and lay on my back again.   
  
Baz immediately nestles back into me, putting his head on my chest and running his fingers over my stomach.   
  
I have 4 missed calls from Penny. I start to ring her back, bringing the phone to my ear.   
  
“What are you doing?” Baz asks and I shush him. He huffs.   
  
Penny picks up on the second ring. “Uh, where are you?” She says in greeting. “I don’t want to sound like your mum but it’s slightly alarming when the person staying at your place just doesn’t come home.”   
  
“Sorry, Pen. I should’ve texted.” I bite my lip, watching as Baz places his arms on my chest, his hands cradling his face as he gazes up at me. “I’m at Baz’s.”   
  
“Oh my god!” She says excitedly. By the silly smile on Baz’s face, he heard it too. “I mean I don’t know where else you would’ve been but still. How was the date?”   
  
“Amazing,” I grin. Baz’s face softens and he looks away bashfully.   
  
“So listen,” Penny says. “Shep and I were hoping to talk to you today. Do you think you could make it back to the café in the next hour?”   
  
“The next hour?” I parrot, gulping and glancing at Baz, who I’d hoped to spend the rest of the day with. He’s not looking at me anymore.   
  
“Sorry. It’s a bit important,” she explains.   
  
“Okay. I’ll see you in a bit.”   
  
I put my phone to one side, leaning back to find Baz’s eyes back on mine. He starts to stretch, falling on his back against the pillows. I follow him, resting on my elbows to angle close to him.   
  
“Kiss me,” I say softly.   
  
Baz scrunches up his nose prettily, “Morning breath.”   
  
“I don’t care,” I say. “Just one kiss.”   
  
He rolls his eyes, though he doesn’t seem very annoyed when his arms enclose around my neck and he tilts his head up, capturing my lips with his.   
  
Soft, innocent, closed-mouth kisses. He pushes my hair back, his lips gentle against mine. My head starts to turn hazy when he twists closer to me, wrapping his legs around my waist and using his hips to test the waters, creating a clouded sort of friction between our bodies.   
  
“Baz,” I say breathlessly. “I have to meet Penny.”   
  
“I’m not stopping you,” he says with a glint of playfulness in his dark eyes. He rocks his hips.  
  
“You are,” I groan.   
  
I press my lips against his, getting caught up in the feeling.   
  
Then, all of a sudden, I’m disentangling myself from his hold and jumping onto my feet. His head falls back against the pillows and he eyes me, pulling the duvet up over himself.   
  
I’m almost tempted to get back in bed and resume our activities.   
  
But I don’t. I must have heroic self-control.   
  
As I start to put my clothes from last night back on, finding them thrown all across the room, Baz heaves himself out of bed too. He pulls the blinds up and rifles through his drawers, finding a pair of sweatpants and putting them on.   
  
“I thought you would stay in bed,” I say.   
  
“I’m going to make you some breakfast before you leave.”   
  
“Oh, really? You don’t have to –”  
  
“I want to.”   
  
I follow him into the kitchen and sit at one of the stools on his kitchen island. He doesn’t have much food in the apartment, and I’m running low on time, but he toasts me some waffles and dribbles syrup over them.   
  
I eat them with my hands and Baz calls me an animal, to which I chuckle. My fingers are sticky by the end so I lick them clean, aware of Baz’s eyes on me.   
  
He’s sitting on the kitchen counter when I come back out of his bedroom with my shoes now on. He looks like a masterpiece like that; his pale, defined chest on view; his long dark hair the perfect contrast against his light skin.   
  
So, I do what any sane human being would: I stand between his legs and bring his mouth down to mine, kissing him, as if it’s a challenge. He gives as good as he gets, kissing me back with his soft mouth against mine, his curious fingers trailing along my upper arm.   
  
“Shall I come back?” I ask, voice muffled by his lips. “After I’ve seen Penny and Shep?”   
  
“I think that would be the sensible thing to do, yes,” he says, pressing one, last, lingering kiss to my mouth. My lips tingle as I pull away, creating a distance between us, testing my self-restraint.   
  
“Can’t wait,” I say, “for later. I’ll see you then.”  
  
“Goodbye, Snow,” he says. 

-

Penny and Shep are sat at a table in the middle of the café when I get there. It’s the only table in the whole room that hasn’t been stacked against the walls. They both look up with big smiles at the sound of the door closing.   
  
“Did you have a good night?” Penny asks as I pull a chair over to the table, sitting opposite them both.   
  
I sigh happily, “It was really good. Honestly.”   
  
“I’m so happy for you,” Penny says. “Is it like before?”   
  
“Yes and no,” I fold my arms across my chest. “It’s like . . . better. He’s changed, but he’s still the same Baz I knew. And it’s not weird between us, like at all.”   
  
Penny smiles at that. And Shep, who seems to never stop smiling, grins even wider.   
  
“What did you want to talk about?”   
  
“Okay,” Penny clears her throat dramatically, “So I didn’t just invite you to stay because I wanted to see you, but of course that’s part of it. The thing is, Shep has plans for this café. We’ve been going through what we want it to look like and we have a rough idea. But, there’s something missing.”   
  
She doesn’t explain, so I look between the two of them, frowning, “What’s missing?”   
  
Penny raises her eyebrows and nods towards me, “You are.”   
  
“I’m not following.”   
  
Shep laces his fingers together on the table and says, “I want to co-own the café with you. Penny’s told me how you always had a dream to run a place like this. I need a partner, and I think you’d be perfect.”   
  
Penny’s still smiling at me. I’m lost for words.  
  
“What do you think?” She asks.   
  
“So I would move here . . . to Paris? And run my own café with you?”   
  
“Yes,” Penny says. “You could stay with us temporarily or for as long as you like, until you find your own place.”   
  
I open my mouth and close it again.   
  
When Penny and I were younger, we used to talk extensively about our dreams. She used to say she’d like to go diving in the depths of the ocean and find something that has never been discovered. I said I’d like my own café in another country, run by me and my friends, where we bake our own cakes and pastries.   
  
I allow myself a moment to really look around the café, and it’s as if I’m only seeing it for the first time now. It’s pretty big, with a lot of open space for tables and chairs. The walls are painted a light sort of grey.   
  
I can see it already. We could put up framed artwork on the walls, a case of old, vintage books, a noticeboard of local charities and events going on.   
  
As if he can hear my thoughts, Shep says, “I’d love to hear your ideas for it. We’d be a team.”   
  
I say, “I’m going to have to think about it.”   
  
And I am. Am I ready to say goodbye to my home? Am I ready to move even further away from Ebb, quit my job, leave my friends?   
  
“That’s okay,” Shep says.   
  
I need to get back to Baz. 

-

Baz texts to say his apartment door is open for when I get back. I’m close to skipping down the hallway to his place.   
  
I’m on edge.   
  
This morning I thought I had no choice but to return home to my crappy job in Cardiff. Last week I thought I’d never see Baz again.   
  
The thought of moving is . . . terrifying, exhilarating, overwhelming. At home, I have ties I’m not prepared to cut: my mum, my uni friends, my birthplace. But I have ties here too: Penny, Baz, the dream of my own café.   
  
When I slip into his apartment, Baz isn’t in his living room or kitchen, but I can hear the water from his shower running. I took a shower at Penny’s before heading back, hair still damp.   
  
There’s a figure on the balcony, facing the other way. He’s tall – taller than Baz – with light brown hair, and he’s leaning on the railings looking down at the street like he’s been there for hours.   
  
My eyes dart around the room. Just like with the café, I never had a chance to properly look at Baz’s apartment. It’s a big, open space with only an island dividing the living room from the kitchen. The kitchen is spotless. The living room sofas look brand new.   
  
There’s a bookcase next to the TV. My feet lead me to it. On the top shelf, slightly apart from the rest of the books, is my old copy of ‘1984’. I pick it up, finding the pages are slightly tattered, as if it’s been regularly tampered with. I flip the front cover over, peering inside.   
  
My writing. Five years ago:   
  
_Yours, always, Simon._  
  
“Oh, hello!” A voice says from behind me, making me jump.   
  
I slide the book back into it’s place, turning and smiling politely at the man at Baz’s balcony door. Right where I pressed Baz against the glass last night.   
  
“Hey. I’m, uh, meeting Baz here.”   
  
“You must be Simon,” the guy says. He’s objectively handsome. Baz’s handsome friend. That’s okay. “I’m Matthew.”   
  
“Hi,” I say awkwardly.   
  
“Baz is just in the shower.” I blink. He continues, “He hasn’t mentioned me, has he?” I don’t respond. “We met a few years back. On a night out. It was an embarrassing night for the both of us, actually. I’d just broken up with my boyfriend, who I thought I was going to marry. Baz was, well, pretty torn up too. We looked out for each other, I guess you could say.”   
  
After his verbal diarrhoea, he just smiles and looks everywhere else in the room.   
  
I think I recognise him – from Baz’s Facebook page. Pictures of them smiling, posing for nights out, embracing each other.   
  
“Awesome,” I say.   
  
Just awesome. 

**BAZ:**

When the shower is turned off, I can hear voices coming from the other side of the door. I sigh heavily, running a hand through my wet hair. 

Fucking Matthew.   
  
He came round after Snow left. I never told him about our date, or that he was in Paris at all, so Matthew thought his impromptu visit was acceptable. As soon as he found me on my sofa looking like a ‘sexed-up slob’, I caved, and told him who I’d been with.   
  
When Snow texted to say he was coming back, I told Matthew to be gone by the time I was out of the shower. Matthew, very typically, decided to ignore my instructions.   
  
I change into sweatpants and a sweater, hanging up my towel and heading out of the bathroom.   
  
Snow is stood by my bookcase, looking effortlessly attractive and also extremely uncomfortable. Matthew has his back to me.   
  
“Matthew, why are you still in my apartment?” I say.   
  
He turns around, practically beaming. I don’t miss the way Snow’s eyes narrow, burning into the back of Matthew’s head.   
  
“You said I’m always welcome.”   
  
“You’re not welcome now.”   
  
“Come on, Baz,” Matthew pouts. “I was just talking to Simon here. He says you’ve never mentioned me.”  
  
“I haven’t. You’re the bane of my life.”  
  
“You say such flirtatious things.”   
  
Snow looks ready to kill.   
  
“Anyway,” Matthew rocks back on his feet. “I will get going. I’m sure you two have a lot of catching up to do.” He winks at me, making his way over to the door. “It was lovely meeting you, Simon!”   
  
“Bye,” Snow says.  
  
He slams the door closed on his way out.   
  
I huff, dragging my eyes back to Snow’s puzzled expression. “Sorry about him,” I say. “I have such terrible taste in friends.”   
  
“’S okay,” he responds after a moment.   
  
I move across the room to him. He watches me edge closer until I’m right in front of him, leaning in slowly and pressing my lips to a mole on his cheek. He exhales, his breath fanning against the side of my face.   
  
I pull back slightly and ask, “What’s wrong?”   
  
“Did you, um,” he looks uncomfortable still, choosing his words carefully. “Were you two together?”   
  
I purse my lips, “It was never really like that. When I met him, we were both in a bad place. There was a moment where I thought something more might happen, but we were better off as friends.”   
  
“Okay,” he says bluntly.   
  
“Does that make you . . .” I can’t find the right word, but he understands anyway.   
  
“No, I –” He frowns, “I don’t know how to just un-pause what we had.”  
  
“I’m not asking you to just forget we’ve missed five years –”  
  
“I know. But it’s making things difficult. We’re not eighteen anymore. We don’t know each other like we did. So there’s going to be a lot of this,” he gestures between us.   
  
“A lot of what?”   
  
“I don’t know. Confusion. Jealousy. It drives me mad that he’s been able to be with you for the last few years and I haven’t.”  
  
I admit, “I feel the same way.”   
  
“You do?”   
  
“Yes,” I say, exasperatedly. “You’re going back home tomorrow, Simon.”   
  
His eyes are wide. Wide and nervous as he tells me, “Shep wants me to stay in Paris and run the café with him. I don’t know if I should.”   
  
My heart beats out of my chest. Simon Snow. In Paris. With me. For the foreseeable future.   
  
“Are you not certain if you want to stay because of me?” I ask cautiously.   
  
“No, it’s not that. It’s a lot of things. I just need some time.”   
  
Time. The one thing we don’t have.   
  
“Listen, I’m going to go,” he says into the silence. “I’ll see you.”  
  
I don’t say anything more, so he leaves, closing the door behind him.   
  
A couple of days ago, I remember being sat in my favourite bakery with Simon and Bunce, seeing him for the first time in years. I told myself I couldn’t forget these five years, and how I’ve managed all of this time without him.   
  
These years showed me I can be without him. It hurts, but I can. 

The problem is that I don’t want to. I want him with me. 

**SIMON:**

“I made dinner,” Penny says as she wanders into the guest room holding a tray. She holds it up for me to see, then shuffles closer to where I’m curled up at the end of the bed. 

She puts the tray down in front of me and taps my head affectionately. 

“Your last evening here and you’re moping about,” she says softly.   
  
“’M not moping,” I say. “I’m thinking.”   
  
“About staying?”   
  
I nod, my cheek rubbing against the duvet.   
  
“You know what I always do in these situations?” She says. I sit up slightly, holding myself up by my elbows. She grins, “Pros and cons list.”   
  
That’s how I end up sat on the end of the bed with Penny and her huge whiteboard in front of me. With her pen, she writes ‘MOVING TO PARIS’ at the top of the board, ‘PROS’ and ‘CONS’ just slightly below, then a long, wonky line dividing them.   
  
“So you just have this whiteboard hanging around?”   
  
She says, “It comes in really handy actually.” She taps the end of the pen against the board, “Now, let’s start with pros. Tell me them.”   
  
“Okay,” I sigh. “Co-owning a café.” She writes as I list them off. “A new adventure in a new city. Penny. My job at home sucks. Baz.”   
  
She puts an exclamation mark on the end of Baz’s name.   
  
“Cons,” I hum. “Not seeing Ebb as often. Uh, the familiarity of home. Job security in Cardiff. My friends from uni. I can’t speak French.”   
  
“Okay.” The pen squeaks as it moves across the board, then Penny turns to me and says, “That’s five for each side.”   
  
I can tell she’s frowning by the tone of her voice but I can’t seem the tear my eyes away from Baz’s name on the whiteboard.   
  
She notices, and says, “Simon . . .” She sits next to me on the bed, careful to avoid the now empty tray. Softly, she asks me, “Are you sure you’re ready to say goodbye again?”   
  
I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. 

**BAZ:**

The next morning, a text comes through from Bunce:   
  
**Simon’s leaving midday. Come to mine**  
  
My heart drops low in my stomach. He’s made up his mind.   
  
I didn’t see him after he left my apartment yesterday. And as much as I wanted to, I didn’t try to contact him, because he asked for _time_.   
  
And now he’s leaving.   
  
I pick up my keys and head for the door. I make one quick stop before rushing to Bunce’s place. 

-

Bunce opens the door, seeing me flushed and out of breath. Her eyes trail from my alarmed expression to the brown paper bag in my hand. She tells me, “He’s in the guest room.”   
  
She steps aside and I dash past her.   
  
I push the door open, and the sight of Simon leaning over his suitcase, placing badly folded clothes into it, sends a rush of dread through me. He looks up, wide-eyed, at the sound of the door slamming closed.   
  
“ _No_ ,” I say. The word sort of erupts out of me; my fear finding its voice.   
  
Simon stands up straight, his mouth open in an ‘o’ shape. He starts saying, gently, “Baz, I –”  
  
“ _Simon_ ,” I say. He stops talking at my interruption and furrows his eyebrows. I plead, “I know this is a hard decision for you. And I’m not trying to make it worse for you by coming here when you’re trying to leave but . . . please don’t go.”   
  
At my words, he exhales sharply, and tries to speak again, “Baz . . .”  
  
“Don’t leave. I realise I can’t just ask you to give up your life for me but . . . I want to be with you. I want you to stay.”   
  
The corner of his mouth twitches into an almost-smile. He says, “Penny and I made a pros and cons list.”   
  
I scoff, “You made this life changing decision based on a pros and cons list?”   
  
“Well, it helped. It showed me what I really want.”   
  
I raise my eyebrows at that, almost scared to ask the question: “What do you want, Simon?”  
  
He lifts his chin and sighs contently, admitting, “I want you. And I want Paris.”   
  
I can’t help it. I start to grin.   
  
“There is _no_ world in which I am ready to say goodbye to you again,” he says.   
  
“Then don’t.”  
  
My eyes are drawn to the suitcase lying on his bed. He catches sight of it and explains, “I’m going back home to get the rest of my stuff. And tell my mum. And quit my job. And sort out what to do with my flat.”   
  
I beam, turning back to look at him. The sun is peeking through the windows, lighting the side of his handsome face, turning his curls bronze.   
  
“You’re really staying?”   
  
He nods, a small, private smile on his lips. “I’m staying. In Paris. With you.”   
  
I practically jump into his arms, dropping the paper bag on the floor to wrap my arms around his neck. His curls brush the side of my face as he encircles my waist, pulling me closer.   
  
I can feel his lips against my ear as he whispers, “I love you. I always have.”   
  
This close, I wonder if he can feel my heart stuttering against his own chest.   
  
Distantly, I remember our summer, all those years ago, in Simon’s kitchen and him asking me to ‘ _Say it_ ’. I’d whispered back, ‘ _I can’t_ ’.   
  
And now. I finally can. I can say those words out loud.  
  
“I love you,” I say, my voice wavering slightly. He pulls his head back to look at me, his cheeks pink, his lips forming a perfect smile.   
  
He runs his hands up my back and says, “Say it again.”   
  
“I love you,” I say breathlessly. He kisses me then, holding me against his chest. He holds me carefully with his strong arms and I feel weightless, blissful, finally where I’m supposed to be.   
  
When he pulls away, he stays close, but his curious blue eyes find the brown bag where I abandoned it across the room, and he asks, “What’s that?”   
  
I grin, watching as his eyes move to my mouth. Reluctantly, Simon lets me go so I can fetch the bag. I bring it back to him and his hands find my waist again.   
  
“These are for you,” I say, opening the brown bag.   
  
When he sees the sour cherry scones sitting there, he reaches for the back of my head and captures my lips with his.   
  
“Stop smiling so I can kiss you properly,” I mumble against his mouth. But he doesn’t stop smiling. Even as we pack up the rest of his things and I take him to the airport, that smile remains against his lips.   
  
When I pick him up from the airport almost four weeks later, he’s still smiling. His hair a mess, his eyes tired from the early flight, but there’s a grin spreading from ear to ear. 

He races towards me, dropping his suitcases at his side and pulling me closer by my hips. His lips find mine, kissing me passionately, as if we are the only people in the world. 

I press my forehead against his, telling him softly, “We don’t need to French kiss in front of everyone.” 

He pecks me innocently on the lips and beams, saying, “Well, when in Paris.” 

**Author's Note:**

> And that's a wrap! I hope you enjoyed the series. xx
> 
> Note: I'm sorry for going on and on about how sexy Simon Snow is at 23 years old. 
> 
> Stay safe everyone x


End file.
